


between the stars

by kinpika



Series: thin red line [6]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Chapter titles for rating and pairing, F/F, F/M, Gen, I'm just posting them, Random little shorts, Some may end up being longer eventually but for now, Varying characters and relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: It would make sense, that at any point in time, they would eventually find themselves in the same room.Little fics that have been written over the course of some months. Taking place pre and post class stories, KOTET/KOTFE, etc. Cross class character interactions mostly.
Relationships: Female Bounty Hunter/Torian Cadera, Female Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython/Archiban "Doc" Kimble, Female Sith Warrior/Vette, Lana Beniko/Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Malavai Quinn/Female Sith Warrior
Series: thin red line [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1393306
Kudos: 19





	1. JK/Doc: war wounds

“Don’t worry, Doc’s here now.”

He hates how he’s not good at keeping the panic out of his voice. Even as there’s a groan and a splutter and Kira’s shouts bleed out in the noise. The whimper. Electric blue and burning by his leg, when her hand finally falls, laser sword falling silent.

Lightsaber. Never called it that to her face. Laughs as he says that. Does he really say it though? His hands aren’t shaking but it feels like he is. Tweezers and Kira, _keep her down_. “Nona.” Once, twice. Rinse and repeat. “Come on, old girl, don’t close your eyes now.”

Shouldn’t make her laugh. First rule. Body twists and tightens and he needs to get the shrapnel out, now, before the damn Jedi tried to heal herself. Bury it under the skin. Infection and disease and long-lasting pain. Extensive and unnecessary surgery later. Had to do it now.

“Don’t tell her that.”

Talking again. Shit. Fuck. Sorry. Can’t stop the way it leaves him, as he moves and removes fabric and armour. Keep your eyes on me, gorgeous, is what he says. Thinks. Fills his ears and maybe those words are really coming out; maybe there is the saving grace of confidence right there. That he can pull it all back up again, and wear that personality out like it didn’t lose out to the prospect of—

He doesn’t care. He does. He doesn’t. He does. Thoughts that match the clink of metal falling aside, as Kira’s hands follow his path, catching the skin he misses, keeping her from moving. Tells himself, don’t look at her face. Keep that wall up, but he’s going to have to look soon. Possible scrapes. Still had to be treated.

Breathing getting softer. Her nails are digging into his thighs, as he has to. Dig. More than he wanted. All at once, Nona tenses, eyes squeezed shut, as she finally. Cries.

But Doc can’t stop. Not yet. Kira smooths the hair from her face, whispering things that are too private. Jedi garbage. Mantras and safe words that still don’t stop the way she bites down on her free hand, how she tries to pull away. Five more minutes. I promise. Repeats those words over and over. Nearly there.


	2. JC/Lana: three

Lana lets out. Three quick breaths. One, two, three. The kind that tighten at the throat, uncomfortable familiarity. But they are lost in the three short knocks against the metal, door sliding open.

And she is the penetrating sound into a world of silence. Her footsteps could not have been lighter, but they echo in the chamber, right, left. As if the universe itself had come to attention, even as she. Breathes. In and out. Shoulders back and chest high, eyes finding patterns in the lights above.

For what was she so nervous about? That the tension ran her back so straight, even as she entered what would have been an empty room, save for the monument, the immovable. Lana could not answer the question, as it was left behind, first step, as she moves up. Lets herself be washed over in the innate calm and force, that bit at her heels.

Reminding her that she was still not entirely welcome. That she was still here. “Commander,” she begins, throat tightening around those three syllables. Three breaths. Three knocks. “We need to—”

When the Commander moves, little puzzle falling into her hands, does Lana fall silent. She sees the skips ahead. Always dealt in threes. Outcomes and moves and the ever present concern that her hand had been shown. As she spies the arc of montrals, colours sinking in as she steps out of the grey. With each step.

Always in threes.

“Lana,” comes the voice, soft, admonishing. Tender. “Please.”

Steady now. Smile. Don’t let the mask fall. Lana repeats the phrases and the words and the inevitability over in her mind, lets it sink into her skin. Let the Commander, no, — “ _Shaelshi_ ” feel. Think. Believe.

Because, if she didn’t, Lana wouldn’t believe in the game anymore. Perhaps, that scared her the most.


	3. IA & BH: work

“My services aren’t cheap, imp.”

Chewed over words, with kicked up legs and the roll of one too many visits to the perfumed rooms of Nar Shaddaa. Raps knuckles on the top of the table, one too many times. “Even then, not sure if I’d be interested.”

Someone watching, of course. Couldn’t move anywhere on Dromund Kaas without someone noticing these days. Taldr threads his fingers together, leans in. Cuts a look out the corner of his eye that know one else could possibly know about. Notes the jump of muscle in the bounty hunter’s jaw. Who did they have to worry about now? “I can organise you a ride in and out of Republic airspace, if you are concerned about that.”

“Who, Voyski?” The way she spits the name, almost, close enough to be convincing. Puts more merit into keeping the conversation at the level they want. “That two timing greenie still working for you, huh?”

Taldr only hoped she could keep the accent up. “Much like you, he’ll work if the price is right.”

“Heard he married a princess.”

“I heard you were adopted by the Mandalorians.”

“And that you got adopted by the aristocracy.” Slip of the mask. Information no one else possibly could’ve known about.

Moving pieces that he wasn’t sure about. It hadn’t been that long since their paths had crossed, but the bounty hunter, Catiel, she was frowning now. Staring at him in a way he wasn’t familiar with. Something had happened. Tensions too high.


	4. IA & BH: always

“Did you actually get adopted by Mandalore the Vindicated, or was that just a rumour?”

Taldr did not have to wait long for an answer, because the almost embarrassed look on Catiel’s face said everything he needed to know. “I thought it would be… _impolite_ to turn them down.”

That gets him to choke on his drink, thumping a fist against his chest as she turns to taking a longer drag. Attempting to drown herself in the Tarisian wine? Maybe so. “‘ _Impolite_ ’? You… you. Catiel, _really?_ ”

“What?! I went on the ship after I won the, y’know, bounty hunting thing.” Finger wiggle around the words. Far too dismissive. A minor inconvenience in her life, Taldr was fully aware of, as he had received at least four different messages regarding the progress. “There were a lot of them there. If I turned him down, I don’t know what they would’ve done.”

“So you decide to get a new… _father_? Is he your dad now? Do you have to call him that?”

Catiel smacks him upside his shoulder at that. “No! I don’t think so—I don’t know, okay. I just call him Mand’alor, and everyone seems fine with that.

“Stop laughing already!”

“This is too much. Aren’t you trying to lay low? I think being adopted by the reigning leader of the Mandalorians kind of, y’know, goes against that?”

“I feel like they’re the kind of people who don’t like being told ‘no’, so…” Catiel purses her lips, staring down at the label. Thumb catching underneath. “One way to be protected, at least. Besides, I should be asking you about that _Saganu_.”

His turn to stumble, turn around a little too fast. “How the fuck did you hear about that?!”

Hand sign. Gun. “Seriously?” She nods, pulls away from the bottle with a soft pop, hands it back over.

“Something something discretion something something pretty and blue. I didn’t bother reading it. Saw you in the footage — by the way, _very_ unprofessional — figured someone else could try.” Idle shrug, before she lays back, kicking her feet out against the edge.

Taldr could get the contract terminated. Even she could. Could also find out who put it down, and snip the problem then and there. But, Taldr sets the bottle aside, barely any wine left. Settles down beside her, the sky over Dromund Kaas the only thing they could see.

“‘Merit adoptive’. That’s what he called it.”

“So… what? You have a new house? Is that how it works.”

“Fuck if I know. I haven’t been on Csilla for… well. Years.”

That gets him a side eye, which he considers impolite. Tells her so, too. Elbow in his side, and in his attempt to roll away, he knocks over the bottle, sending it far down below. Shouts his apologies like they were still arm in arm on Nar Shaddaa. Too deep into the cover and putting off the discussions and calls.

Catiel holds up her hand then, and Taldr didn’t have to have second or third sight to know what was next. Lace their fingers, squeeze in return. “We make a pair.”

“Always have.”


	5. JK & BH: hello again

Nona doesn’t respond to the ‘remind me again why we’re here’. It coincides too closely with the ‘oh I remember _her_ ’, and then at least three different eye rolls she can feel, doesn’t have to see. Only smiles in response when they can hear the roll and the screams.

Voices, clamouring. Sheer excitement combined with the slightest tinging of fear, as there is another person down and out for the count. Screens blare overhead, showing action replays of yet another racer down.

“We’re just in time!”

“With all due respect, Nona,” comes Kira’s voice, but it’s lost to the way she dodges someone who was just a little too lush this side of three in the afternoon. “Why are we here?”

Twirls hair around her finger, and Nona is all caught up the screens once more. _Thump_ _thump_. She remembers the movements well. Fingers twitching on gears she can almost feel, right here. “I haven’t been racing in so long.”

Wistful sigh, turns on her heels. “We need a break, yeah? I heard the food was good.”

Several disagreeing voices, but it doesn’t matter. Not when she spies the podracing signs between the crowds. And Nona doesn’t give her crew enough credit, or maybe they don’t give it to her. Eternal dissonance where there is drive and a need and she’s already six feet from the crowd, following bright lights, loud music.

Roars of the crowds and that kind of sinking slinky feeling that hadn’t been up her spine in so long. Crosses her arms, nails digging into the insides of her arms, and flash! Another crash. Another close call! Kept her nice and coiled all over. Meditation only did so much, but this? Well Nona could only say _finally_ that she had a reason to maybe get her worth in, under a not so incorrect pretence of finding information and bad guys.

But her parade was cut a little too short. Hand on her shoulder. Nona has to. Tell herself to breathe. Not give it away. Tilt her head just a little to the right, to see who had their arm around her.

 _Oh_.

“Jedi aren’t really allowed in podracing these days. Cheating, y’know?”

Low voice, but Nona recognised far too much. Remembers that scar that cut too sharp right there. “I thought you were dead.” Target acquired.

“I thought Zeltron weren’t allowed to be Knights.”

Twist of the lips, the pair of them. “Things change.”

Slow blink, and Catiel Jast backs off, hand dropping to her side. Idle fingers tapping. Nervous. Nona remembers being taught that. “Point still stands. Not allowed. Get your kicks somewhere else.”

“Endorse me.”

With a snort, and a strong shake of the head, it seemed Catiel had deigned to take her leave. But Nona was having none of that, not at all. Not when she latches on to Catiel’s elbow, fingers finding the scars under fabric far too well. Holding tight.

“Please.”


	6. JK: escape

There is a different rhythm to each footstep. Stumbling, like a toddler, learning to walk all over again. Trying to find her feet once more. Which path did she walk? Why did the sabers in her hands feel so heavy? Questions, no answers. Keep moving, keep breathing. Head down, be who she was — but which person did she mean?

And there was more than a thousand voices, clamouring for attention. Like a legacy of red and days she couldn’t remember, all caught up in the reflection she sees. Partially obscured, but it was enough. To see the barely there fractures around her eyes, no longer blue. Cracks that travel down, disappearing under fabric that was just too tight around the neck.

Kira is obscured to the droids, footsteps behind. Careful distance, as if she still didn’t trust that Nona had returned. Not that she could be blamed, as doubts still lingered. Right there, pressure building. _Come back_ , the voices whisper. _You still have so much to learn_.

Licks her lips, sharp inhale. Pressing up against door frames, avoiding patrols. Labyrinth that she does not remember. Her feet do, but instinct isn’t good enough. Not when Kira is beside her, holding her side, clenched teeth. Damage wrought unto the soul, more than the skin. Nona doesn’t have time to think about how to repair it, rebuild that trust and strength. No, she holds out her hand once more, waits. Can feel the nerves fester; she’s going to hurt me she never changed this _isatestletmeOUT!_

So she leaps. From the door to the scaffolding. Blades raised, clashing in a shower of sparks. Red meeting red, and the universe stops. Goes quiet. Holds it’s breath and waits for the right moment, the small voice, of,

“Nona?”


	7. JK & BH: it's been a while

And she remembers, being small, back of the class. Wide eyed. Hand raised.

And she remembers, clear eyes, looking back. Kind smile.

Nearly two decades, and a person changes. The question is still there, back of her mind. How do you feel someone in the force? A simple thought, from a teenager with knobbly knees. No laughter from the other padawans, because _this is a serious question, calm down_.

Answers had ranged, from the most immediate feel of shift, of someone else being tuned. How they could track someone, lightyears away. Only the most powerful though, don’t you forget, padawan, accompanied by a wink, were able to accomplish such a feat. Others, simple. A connection so strong, it crossed time and space.

Like ghosts.

Ghosts with coloured cheeks, painted lips. Bored and overlooking the races, pipe balanced between two fingers. Nona approaches, mindful of the blaster at the hip. Knowing it wasn't the first weapon to be reached for, nor the most dangerous. If there was one thing she knew, it was that Catiel hadn’t survived this long without repercussions.

Like the way her smile cut now, aside, to a woman with dark hair and colourful lights embedded into her skin. Like Catiel couldn’t shake the instinct, to care. All these years, and she still looked on with that warm look, even if now it was bundled up in furs to combat the cold.

Nona lets herself be known. As easy as breathing, to let down her defences. To let Catiel’s ever present self be totalled, in an instant. Steady breathing, focus. Watching how shoulders tighten, how she turns. A man Nona hadn’t taken notice of pushes away from the balcony, armed, aimed, ignoring the hand raised towards him.

Something muttered, in a language she doesn’t catch. Puts the pieces together, previous research, suggested Mandalorian. Adding up all the rumours, and it made sense, she guesses. Best protection in the universe.

Swallowing loudly, Nona takes one more step, before she hears the, ‘uh uh, that’s far enough’. Raises her hands, mindful of the barrel held against the back of her neck.

Don’t look away. Don’t fake out now. What did Catiel always say? Be brave, be good.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Pause. Wets her lips, finds the cracks, breathes. “Sil—”

Like a flash, across the room. Hand against her mouth, and there is an anger Nona had only seen, last night, the saber held in her face. “Don’t you _dare_ use that name.” Last words. First words. Like the bookends, happening before her eyes.

And there’s a spike, in the corner. Pressure that builds and burns. Because she was losing grip, fast. Catiel is not unkind, in how she lets go. In the tilt of her head, as Nona feels the first tear find freedom down her cheek. Like her head wants to explode, to let all the thoughts out. If she speaks it, then it becomes reality.

Except her tongue remains heavy, and Catiel sighs. A hand, over to the counter. “Fucking Council.” Hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. Nona finds lines and scars she did not recall. A different person now, she truly was. “Sit. Eat. Tell me about it after the race.”

Nona finds herself on the edge. Between the balcony and the curious eyes. No extra comments. Just the way Catiel kicks her feet back up, arms along the back of the lounge, looking over. Seeing things Nona wasn’t sure she could. Not yet. Some comfort, though, in pretending it was fine. When she places her sabers on the table, there isn’t another word, nor a shift. Like she was simply the blackhole, pointedly ignored. Out of deference? Nona wasn’t sure.

Instead, she folded her arms over her chest. Hugging herself in a den full of strangers. How the mighty had fallen. Resting her head against the railing, she allows herself to look out. To get lost in the smoke and screams of the crowd far below.


	8. SW & JK: enough

Someone is screaming. And there is the lurch, in her gut, at the sensation of it. Cold water down her spine, almost too slow on the draw. Pulling her right hand across, saber barely catching, deflecting in time.

“Älfrinn, enough!”

There is nothing poetic in the sound, of the clash of light. Burns too close to her face, and Nona throws. Her weight? The force? Into motion. To separate the two of them, catching another swing along her back, left hand. Steps in time, as Älfrinn goes flying back.

“Stop this! You don’t need to do this!”

Red spirals from between the trees. It is dark and it is hungry, as Nona deflects it in a shower of sparks. Feels the screams again. _There_. Collapsing trees, and throwing rocks, Nona moves her feet in time. Roots herself, in this moment.

Something to be said, in how they are trained in martial combat. Älfrinn is quick and she is brutal, in pulling her saber back from where it had landed, catching in and out of Nona’s defences. And she knows, Nona wasn’t created for defence. Not when she has to. Drop one of her sabers, two hands on the hilt now, bringing yellow to clash in brilliant orange. Again, and again, and again.

It is easy to get lost in the feeling. To feel herself dip, into the way anger is tied into strength. Even as Älfrinn’s knees finally buckle, arms shaking with each push, Nona feels it burning at the edges.

No. _Yes_. She would not play this game.

With one singular, great breath, she pulls. Wrestles Älfrinn’s lightsaber free from her hands, throwing it somewhere into the distance. Holds yellow against the column of her throat.

“Enough.”


	9. NSFW SW/Quinn: last time

Her leg curls around his hip, fingers in his hair. Pulling, tighter, harder, scratch of nails along his scalp. Yet Quinn doesn’t stop, moves in time to meet her, face buried in the crook of her neck. Eyes squeezed shut, as his hold on Älfrinn tightens. As they moan together, muffled by skin.

“Never again.”

“ _Never_ again.” Repeated, against her. Once more, teeth bare against the column of her throat. Rage and forgiveness, rolled into the way she is pushing down his jacket now, hands splayed against his chest. Forcing Quinn back, _just_ enough, to meet her eye.

“Say it for me.”

Robes pulled loose, held up over her hips. Dishevelled and dare he say, beautiful, in how Älfrinn’s eyes narrow, fingers that trace along the edge of his jaw. Hard line of tattoos that follow further south, but Quinn does not look. For he has already seen and kissed and touched, but never the way for how Älfrinn stares.

“Say those words for me, Malavai. _Please_.”

Shuddering breath, because they were always meant. Even if the truth of it left her open, exposed, ready for others to move against her. “My lord.” Voice not catching on the words, holding steady and strong. “I _love_ you.”

Quinn doesn’t give her a chance to breathe. Flat palm, against her shoulder. Holding her against the wall, as he moves his hips once more. Keeping them apart, as he finds her eyes. “I never stopped loving you.”

And she laughs, strangled into a groan, as she repeats it back to him. Over and over, again and again and again. Thrusts that move off rhythm, drag on each upward movement, allowing for shuddering breaths to leave him. Guard down, and Älfrinn kisses him, open mouthed and pleading, there, please, _Malavai_.

There are a lot of things that Quinn knows he should not have done. That there was a careful game being played, starting from a point in time long before she had even been a blip on the radar. In one fell swoop, all the pieces had been knocked from the board. So, he carries her back, mindful of clothing and the closeness, the pressure sitting hot and sure.

Lowers her, gently, on the bed. Last few pieces of material that clung to them discarded, no longer hiding the mysteries of scars and warped skin.


	10. SW & SI: the house

Älfrinn doesn’t like the old house. And it is _old_ , spanning generations back to people the family didn’t know of, truly. But reclaiming Ziost meant doing more than dusting off holdings and property. They still hadn’t been able to take the cold out of the walls.

Up the steps, towards the study. Summoned, with such a directness that Älfrinn had been sure that branch families were not recognised with. Lord Marlavi had never been one to send such a specific note, and even her own mother recognised that. Troubling, in all the wrong ways.

“Darth Masrae summoned me.”

Barely a look up from the person who sat beside the doors. Didn’t know they had invested in a receptionist either. Just the press of a button, and Älfrinn is in, rounding the corner once more to see an empty chair.

Had they been infiltrated? A dozen scenarios played out in her mind, that this was a trap, and someone was willing to even remove the branches. It would be flattering perhaps, if the snap of a book closing behind her didn’t have her wheel around, arm outstretched.

Finding instead N’ahtav, looking remarkably amused, placing the book back on the shelf. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Älfrinn.”

“Where is Lord Marlavi?”

The smile doesn’t go. Instead, N’ahtav sits herself where the head of the family might’ve once, hands spreading. “A pleasure to meet you.”

One, two. Slow breaths, before Älfrinn tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You killed him.”

Looking almost annoyed by such a claim, N’ahtav shakes her head. “No, father has returned to Dromund Kaas to assist with overseeing the military operations as this… _war_ begins to grow again.”

“So, you’re keeping his seat warm? I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Toothy grin, one that holds no warmth. Overstepping, Älfrinn’s mother always had a problem with her overstepping. But she does not want to take the opportunity to apologise, hand over her heart. Swear allegiance to the cousin before her. There are pieces in play, and Älfrinn had seen N’ahtav play even the most basic board games in her youth. She did not want to become one of them.

Perhaps the silence drags too long, or N’ahtav knows that Älfrinn will not bend knee. Undeterred, she draws up one of the screens. “You will be moving out to Korriban to complete your training. Tomorrow.”

Threading her fingers underneath her chin, N’ahtav looks over her, from head to toe. “Your time has come, _acolyte_. I know my father had refused your request, but I think you’re more than ready.”

Confusion fills Älfrinn as she bows. Low and respectfully, frowning at the ground. Smooth and clear face as she looks back up. “Thank you, my Lord. I will not fail you.”

“See to it that you don’t. I will join you on Korriban in a few weeks.”

“To find an apprentice?”

“That is the idea.” Something in her voice tells Älfrinn otherwise, but she doesn’t press. Just bows, once more, with thanks.

Dismissed and out the door. Too much to tell her mother when she returned, to pack for. Needed to be ready. Hands shaking as she steps out of the house, doors closing behind her. Älfrinn does not look back, as she’s too focused. Trying to smother her smile with her hand, feeling the beating of her heart in her ears. _Finally_.


	11. NSFW JK/Doc: hair

“Oh, no, you aren’t going anywhere near my thighs with _that_ thing!”

The immediate, and quick frankly hilarious, reaction that Nona gets is a very poignant frown, with Doc tentatively twirling the end of his moustache. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It itches.”

A gasp of horror, complete with a hand over his heart. Oh, how wounded was his pride, for him to even lean away. “You’ve never complained _before_ when we’ve kissed.”

“Notice how I only kiss you _after_ you’ve done your care routine? It’s softer.”

And if she was feeling particularly specific, Nona would recount how long it had been since. All those oils and brushes did pay off, despite the way everyone clamoured over how long Doc spent in front of a mirror. “Regardless, point still stands: absolutely not.”

With an ever growing silence, does Doc seem deep in thought. Arms crossed. Overthinking and Nona can’t help but smile. Sling her arms around his shoulders, pulling him back in, for a kiss that was the kind even he whispered into, a grin that settles on the corner of his mouth.

Settling for fingers and sly hands. Thumb and follow down her chest, always mindful of the scar, just so. Tilts his head, one lower now, the other carefully positioned against her ribs. “May I?” he asks, one eye open, except Nona doesn’t see.

Nods, instead. Soft gasp, softer fingers. Maybe there’s an apology for callouses, or maybe there’s a joke, about how he knew he was good. Caught up in the way Doc falls back against the covers, pulling Nona onto her side by him. Open mouthed kisses, and her hands palming down his chest.


	12. SW & Lana: reborn

There is no distinction between time. Even as the world hisses, and ghosts dismiss themselves without a backwards glance, Älfrinn is still here. Still there. A singular motion that rendered unto nothing.

Hand outstretched, as the world grows bright. Perhaps she had succumbed, and for that, she would not be surprised. Ache in her teeth, her joints. Hyperaware of movement and feeling. No, convincing herself otherwise. It would be unwise to listen to the notions, that this was real.

The only truth lies in the red. Filling her vision, mind, body and soul. Like a rolling anger, that numbs the pain, blinds her from it. And, quietly, Älfrinn can taste fear. Something she wants to bite back at, no, that was not allowed. Never again.

Only once, and that was enough. What was there to fear, when she inhales, fingers curling against metal beneath. Reaching out, finding that she could rip and pull and be the better for it. Shoulders that shake and was that the sound of her breathing? So laboured and defenceless? Real?

 _Yes_. Head snapping up at the word, seeing the red and the dark and nothing in between. Lone figure, obscured. Like a pool of light, that Älfrinn feels herself scowl at. Lip pulled back, into a snarl. Who. Blood rushing through her ears, as she raises a hand. Who _dare_. To look upon her like this.

Where her throat ached with each new breath, each real one, and where she could not see. Just the space beyond her fingertips, where she could see the force swarm, glow. Ready to use and be used, crawl back up, take its payment in skin and bone.

Closer, closer, the figure draws. Flooding in to already sensitive eyes. Älfrinn does not find the strength, in being able to rip at the floor that lay beneath, or anything that stood above. No, for once, she is,

(weak)

“It’s me.”

Voice like an imprint, kept close. Eyes that widen, as the light breaks through the fragments. Fighting against the dark. And she remembers. It all. As if time had never separated the two. Static fills her ears, crumbling and breaking and the red finds solace in skin. Sinking in deep to where it would never be forgotten.

While there stands. _Lana_. A single hand extended, resolute and absolute. Always careful in the display, and perhaps it is her fear that Älfrinn had carried. Or theirs, as she drops her head once more. Finds metal twisted into her fingers, catch and release.

Lana’s hand is warm and dry. There is no malice, nor judgement, when Älfrinn is pulled to her feet. Just the slow blink of yellow, surefire, that says it all.


	13. Kira & Satele: one word

“Kira? May I have a word?”

To many, Kira would assume that Satele’s voice was soothing. Perhaps it was the lingering pinpricks in her mind, reminding her of long months, that had her flinch in response. She still turned, despite the cold feeling in her gut telling her that everything was wrong. That their shadows were growing just that little bit longer.

Grind, on her back teeth. She remembered this feeling too well, and hated it. Pain, behind her left eye, as Kira recalled all those years ago far too easy.

“Yes, Grandmaster? Did you need me or Non—”

“In here, if you don’t mind.”

Satele leads the way, in one room and through to another, far from the celebrations in the other hall. Having half a mind to ask if this was on purpose, to really get her confused, Kira has to bite back. Keep that question to herself. This wasn’t her speaking to Nona, several glasses into some fancy wine Doc had ‘found’ while they were traipsing around Alderaan.

When they appeared to be in whatever room Satele was finally happy with, she leans against the nearest desk. Arms folded, with that one particular look on her face. Master Kiwiiks used to get a similar expression, but normally when Kira spoke out of turn.

Fine. Opening her mouth to speak, she’s cut off by the hand held up. “How long has Nona held onto that lightsaber?”

Before Kira lay two options. Lie through her teeth, playing it off that she couldn’t possibly know what Satele meant, or acknowledge the particular lightsaber that Nona had deigned to carry. The kind that seemed to scream, when it was a little too quiet.

With a sigh, it wasn’t hard to understand what her choice truly was. “She says it feels… _comfortable_.”

That was the word. The one that she had provided when it was her turn to poke and prod Nona about her time in the Empire. Drew the short straw on that one, as she had diverted her attention to the lightsabers that were resting. Crying.

Kira had to give her some credit, when Satele didn’t seem to react. Not visibly, at least. Barely a movement of muscle, before she pushed herself off the desk. “Thank you. That will be all for now.”

Dismissed. Long gone from Satele’s sight, as she closes her eyes. Something Kira had never managed to get used to, in all her time, was the distance. Perhaps she never would, turning on her heel, partway out the door. A door. Trying to remember whether it was left or right before she pauses.

One long look over her shoulder. “Master Satele?”

No acknowledgement that she had heard, but that didn’t stop Kira. If anything it seemed to ignite it, the way she bites into her cheek a little too hard, drawing blood. Stop. No. “Master, she’s hurting. And has been for a while now.”

“I know.” An echo, not here, somewhere else.

Kira licks her lips, has to. Laugh, the kind that came out with a puff of air. “I don’t know if you really do, considering what you all did to her. To _us_.

“We needed time, and you packed us up and sent us to Corellia. After the Emperor.”

“Master Nona knew her duty.”

“And she slaughtered dozens because of it. Your… inaction?” Kira had to stop, question that word. It suited, in all the worst ways. “Your _inaction_ broke her in ways that I don’t think anyone is gonna be able to fix anytime soon. So whatever you’re planning to do with her, leave her alone.”

There’s a long silence, the kind that makes Kira antsy. Where she needs to move and get all those feelings out again. Couldn’t wait to get back to the ship, and get outta here for good. She knew Scourge and Doc would be on board.

An eternity passes before Satele looks at her again. Blink and she misses it kind of look, where there wasn’t just the Grandmaster. Kira doesn’t believe in that other person though, when Satele speaks in all her finality. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

No, Kira can’t believe that there was someone other than who she saw before her. It only made the possibilities that much more terrifying, knowing that there was some regret on whatever Satele had considered. “Please do.”

And that was all. Gone, down the hallway, fingers digging into her forearms, as she doesn’t allow herself to scream.


	14. Old masters: who she was

“She’s getting faster.”

An idle look aside says more than it should. In return, Ivaadi merely moves the piece across the board, before returning to hide her hands in her sleeves. Perhaps Jorue should comment further, but there’s a pressure, just there, that was pulsing. Threatening to spill over.

“Healing from her injuries faster than many would have believed.”

Another comment of a different kind. Remembering how they had returned from Nar Shaddaa. Only then had Ivaadi broken that outer shell. Another piece across, the sound a little too strong.

Jorue gives pause then, to stare out over the gardens once more. Watch, how Ivaadi’s padawan twisted, moved. Quick thought, to disengage the blade, spin it around in her hand, hilt spitting out the other side. Moments too slow, and there’s a pause. Again. Restarting the program, and the blade lights up, hilt retracting.

“A pike?”

Finally, Ivaadi sighs. Speaks, drawing the sound from deep inside. “She said it kept her closer to her father.” Sharp eyes meet Jorue’s, before she breaks. Raises her brows with a puff of air, hands going to lekku. “Wouldn’t let me talk her out of it.”

It’s the defensiveness that has Jorue smile. “You were much the same during your time as a padawan, if I recall.” Moves to stand, watching the pieces on the board fizzle once, twice, disappear. “Very insistent on learning different ways and forms, and nearly lost yourself with it, too.”

One very close call to nearly removing one of her lekku, which Jorue was sure Ivaadi was still keenly aware of.

“This is different.” Ivaadi’s hands tell more. She remembered how that time, too. “It was my fault, for what happened. I thought she was ready. And now…”

There’s a shout. Frustration, and they can only watch on. How the padawan pulls her sleeve up, hands going to the bandages around her arm. Jorue can see the red from where he stood, yet Ivaadi moves first. Soft words he doesn’t try to hear, as he is a few paces behind.

Dark line marks the grass, from where the saber had fallen. Turning it over, fingers trace the familiar metal, plain and simple. Until he picks it up, thumb finding the button, turning it over in his hand. Haphazard adjustments made, for the extended hilt. How strange.


	15. Smuggler: cavalry

“Look, you asked for some help, so I called in a favour.”

Hands raised, hip against the console. It’s the idle slackness, the impartial behaviour, that really has his jaw tighten. A joke thrown in about the veins in his forehead, and Acretius finally. _Scowls_. Relents and pushes back, as another area pings red on the screens.

“Where is this _favour_ of yours, then?” Drags the word through, and nails find the spaces between the armour, determined to bite into his arms. Breathe, he needed to breathe. Focus and not let it crawl up his back.

Finger that points upwards, and Ralin is the first to look up. Readjust, with a snort. “No one is able to get in and out of the airspace right now, Voyski. You’re a damn liar.”

“You need to have more faith.” And he turns on his heel, flicking a hand out as he went. “And also see what happens when my friend meets a blockade.”

Three steps after the Mirialan and the ground shakes. Like the world tips, even though his hands are in his pockets and he whistles some jaunty tune, Shaelshi by his side without a care in the world. Simply glided across the floor, and he does not stumble into the elevator, no sir.

Idle seconds, and a scream that was a little too familiar rips through the air as they break through the shields. Tie fighters spin past, and Acretius can’t deny the way his heart jumps in his throat. As his whole body tightens just a fraction too strong.

Except Voyski appears remarkably unfazed by the turn of events, so much so that he walked with a skip in his step that was out of place. Waving at a nearby group, smile too wide, as in the distance, two ships collide and spin towards the surface.

Calls names that are lost again to firefight and screams of ships, but Shaelshi even gives pause. Tightens. As they stand by the side, and find themselves staring into several pairs of yellow eyes.


	16. BH: the weeping mother

Catiel doesn’t like the ever growing feeling of despair. Not in the way Evir holds Hallia in his arms, with all the tenderness she had once told herself that she would like to have her child experience. Chewing on the end of her nail, it is the way that Evir whispers to their daughter, soft kisses against her forehead, that makes her almost have them turn the ship around. To stop the feeling, stop the motion.

And perhaps he knows. Evir looks up at her then, and Catiel wishes he felt the same. Truly, that he would be willing to stash her somewhere again. Find Hallia, Rel and Sorissa somewhere safe, quiet, away from it all. Let Hallia continue to be raised by them, as if nothing else had happened. This was merely a hiccup, that she would remember as a funny dream, in later life, if at all.

Leaning back, Catiel lets her head fall against the wall with a _thunk_. Doesn’t need to look at the map, to know they were approaching Tython. That the fate of Hallia was about to be sealed, without so much as an apology, or another chance.

Of course they had the arguments. Better the Jedi than the Sith. It would be safer for her. Somewhere to be trained and looked after. That, one day, Catiel could remember the peace she had felt on Coruscant, and not be so afraid to find it once again.

It is that one that may be the real kicker for her. Only a handful of people had been there, had seen. Evir could count himself amongst the few, because he punches in landing codes, one arm still holding Hallia close. Like looking through an old book, of a time that Catiel could only remember in fits and starts, if she was being honest. Except Hallia had been smaller, and the cut along his cheek hadn’t healed, then.

Scars and memories and a child. Can’t push herself off the wall with all the gusto she should manage, because the ship is eerily quiet. All eyes on her. Watching with bated breath as they land. Something should jump out, and not in the way Catiel clasps her hands behind her back, follow Evir down and out. Into fresh air and a warm welcome of thinly veiled animosity. Curiosity.

Like she hadn’t left.


	17. SI: new old scar

If N’ahtav were to look upon the moment later, she knew she was tired. When the hand closes around her throat, holding her high in the air, she scrambles. There is nothing there, in power or the force, that threw her across the room. It was the seething hatred, that has her pull her arms around her head, roll and land. Feel the universe tip under it all.

Thanaton moves with a certain grace he never had before. Holds the back of her head so gently, even as he brings her down. Again and again, into the ground. Helmet barely holding together, until it cracks and N’ahtav screams, she thinks. Someone else, nearby. Doesn’t matter, as her head is pulled back, and she sees.

Blood and the ceiling and Thanaton’s grin. Searing pain, down the right side of her face. Skin pressed in and boiling. Against one of the thrones, maybe? Runic carvings, she can almost see. Can’t. Won’t.

N’ahtav doesn’t remember moving.


	18. SI & Marr: old new scar

Darth Marr tilts her head, side of his finger against her cheek. Gently so, corner of the Imperial camp. Yavin 4 ebbs and flows around them, but they remain inscrutable and unreadable. Her eyes remain on the corner of the tent, going through the motions.

“You chose not to heal it.”

“Serves as more of a reminder than anything else I experienced.”

Perhaps he snorts in response, if there was anyway to discern what that noise was from under his helmet. Regardless, he steps back, and out. Not a final word, letting her seal her own mask in place.


	19. SI & SW: reunion

There is silence. Ever growing and consuming, as she kneels. Head bowed, eyes closed, reaching out as far as she would be allowed. Perhaps she looked vulnerable, before the statues and fires of the tomb. Hand pressed against the etched script, concentration growing.

Alfrinn’s first mistake was to believe that the dust she kicked up with her feet made no movement in the world. And there are words, that are daringly affectionate, such as rash, bold, brave. Ones that had been spoken over dinners, shared at grandiose balls while games had been played.

They don’t hold the same feeling now. Not as a line of red cuts through the corner of her eye, landing in the rock beside her finger. Running hot, felt even through the armour, and N’ahtav knows there is some poetic justice in that, as she sighs. Pulls the saber free, twirling the weight in her hands.

Heavier than her own, if that were possible. Following through with her wrist, she does hold the blade high. Alfrinn had always been so true to form, and if she had been anything other than Sith, she would have likely made it far in the Empire’s military chain.

Except the ribbon tied around the hilt betrays her, just as always.

But that wasn’t this life, and N’ahtav throws the lightsaber back, across the empty room before her. Only sound now, thrum of life as it disappeared into the dark. All the light went with it. That suited N’ahtav fine, as the first foot forward was always the most dangerous. Risk to close her eyes and feel, but if there was one thing she knew, it was that Alfrinn was always—

 _Above_! Leaping from the statue, hand raised. Whistle through the quiet, as her lightsaber spun back into view. Equal pace, equal time. N’ahtav doesn’t fight the grin, as she draws her own up, clashing in a shower of sparks and heat. Left hand behind her back, as always, as she draws the second around.

Ah, but Alfrinn pushes back, sending N’ahtav through the dust. Two raised, cross in front of her face. N’ahtav had always wondered what it was to feel like, on the other side. Staring down. Fear had always been so palatable in that moment, where someone had been on the other end of her saber.

Yet Alfrinn raises her own once more. Silent in her judgement. Ironic, in how for once she had found her tongue stilled.

No matter. Not as N’ahtav shoots forward, one, two, force guiding her feet, into a swing that arcs wide, momentary distraction to suggest an opening. One Alfrinn takes greedily, elbow swinging out to catch the wrist that followed. Just like how she tips back, ducking under the sweep. Exposed. Hand brought down on her middle brings the weight with it, shooting her into the ground.

N’ahtav was not a fool to think that would be the end of such wrath. Not when Alfrinn twists herself, upright, on her feet. Wrist held loose. And with a flick, she sends her saber spinning once more. Closes the distance in three steps, flat of her palm directed towards N’ahtav’s face. Brave. Bold. Rash. Just as the saber comes up behind her, and N’ahtav draws.

Two. Clash of light behind them, but her right hand isn’t fast enough for the way stars fill her vision, white hot pain blinding her. Can’t shake it out fast enough, as she draws up each deflection, one, two, foot kicking out to throw some of the dust between them. Alfrinn is nothing if not relentless as she follows. As N’ahtav gets a pause, her foot finding the uneven ankle on loose rocks, kicking up as her hands moved, fitting the ends of the saber together. Spin around, tasting blood and anger, as Alfrinn rights herself with too much weight behind her movements. Too much force, splitting the ground.

Deflections. Throwing off each swing with another meeting. N’ahtav finds some solace in the footwork, reminiscent of Ziost. Buried in the training grounds of their home, but that was then and this was now, and she ducks, finger sliding over buttons to stop the light. Twisting the blade around, activating it once more, cutting close enough to have Alfrinn almost pause.

Almost, in that she pulls up too slow. For who, N’ahtav can’t say. Not with the kick to Alfrinn’s gut, sending her dear cousin back. Maybe there was too much behind it, as a gasp and heave broke through their fight. Flat had against her stomach, no, she would not be given time to heal.

Not now. Not as N’ahtav follows, pushing back this time. Enough of this. Alfrinn meets each swing with her own, undeterred by the way blood spilled down her lips. Just the way she strikes, cuts a fine line that sears, eye hollow, cold. Only the momentary tightness around her eyes, when N’ahtav catches her in the side with the hilt, having her twist out the way, push back.

Back and back and back. Turning in her favour, as each swing becomes more aggressive. Unnatural in the energy, and N’ahtav. Watches, with the world slowing behind her, as Alfrinn’s blade cuts through the hilt of her own. Light flickering out as they dropped. Bringing her hand up on a backswing, ready for the final blow.

Who was quicker, truly? As N’ahtav’s hand closes around Alfrinn’s throat, finding all the delicate points, left hand pulling the saber free. Letting it disappear into the dark once more, as she holds. _Enough_! Something says, roars, as Alfrinn struggles. Claws at her wrist. Finds words that are lost in the gasp.

N’ahtav can’t protect herself from how she was thrown back. Rolls as she hits the ground, and there is shooting pain. Leg. Arm. Side. Hands drawn together as Alfrinn presses forward, blade fighting against the palms of her hand.

She wants to say one of them screams, but it is both. As the lightning builds and as Alfrinn prepares for the final blow. As the rocks seem to rise around them, time not telling who is faster, or who would be stronger. Just the clamour and the noise and the _silence_.


	20. SW/Quinn: a moment

Holoterminal on low, lights down, the only noise coming from the other side of the bridge was the apparent argument developing between Pierce and Vette. Not that he was sparing time in consideration, peering around the corner to take note of where she was in comparison. Despite the apparent necessary renovations, in additional chairs and tables, Alfrinn remained in meditation nearest to the deck, kneeling on the ground.

Clearing his throat, he steps out from the door. Hands clasped, behind his back and perhaps too tight. Enough to feel the press of metal between material, just there, left hand. Eyes remaining on how his presence had alerted the other two, distracted from their game.

“My lord, might I have a word with you?”

Quinn is aware of the shift. Perhaps it was the force, or just life itself, that fluctuates in the moment that Alfrinn returned to them. Where her visage was no longer disturbed by the ever growing purples, reds and greys. Never had he thought to ask, what it all meant, and still did he not press. Not as she looks up at him, the quirk in her cheek betraying the look of vague boredom she had taken to wearing.

Only to keep people away, she had said one day, when Vette had asked. _Look disinterested enough, and even the most ignorant Moff might just leave you alone_.

Offering a hand which she takes, Alfrinn moves to her feet. Grimace, aimed at her feet. Oddly humanising, in that moment, even as she releases his hand. Even as he flexes his fingers at his side. Alfrinn extends her arm, asking him to lead, and the noise resumes.

Three steps into the deck, and the door slides shut behind her. Quinn didn’t consider himself a greedy man, but he turns, hand against the panel beside her. Too close, too warm, finding her left hand as easily as the weight continued to rest on his mind. Pulls the glove free, and there it was.

Untraditionally silver and plain. Her choice, something he could never quite understand. But that was neither here nor there, not when their fingers thread together, and Quinn leans in. Hair’s breadth away. Swallowing thickly, as he whispers, “my _love_.”

“How forward of you, Malavai.” Alfrinn’s voice rolls with the easy tease, just shy of poking and prodding completely. Finding a fondness in his name. And he would be foolish to deny that he liked how his name sounded, thick and rounded by the distinctly Ziostian accent.

A number of words that sit on the tip of his tongue. Some still too daring, or just never finding the right time to be said. Quinn wasn’t sure if it was some need, to be that person, to move on and find the new. If he closed his eyes, Pierce’s messages weigh heavily on his mind. So he murmurs, “quite so,” against her lips.

Just a moment. That was all he required. To hear the shaky breath that leaves her, eyes closed, as they part. Alfrinn licks her lips then, universe slowing down with the motion.

“Malavai—”

“Thank you for your time, my lord.”

Alfrinn’s hands cup his cheeks. Fingers spread wide, sliding over skin. Quinn does not dare close his eyes in that moment, holding firm, as nails find his scalp, a warming drag that ends with a sweep, from throat to shoulder. Thumbs that linger, as her hands slide back up once more. Against pressure points that don’t threaten, just feel the steady thrum of his heart. Right there.

“Anything for _you_.”

Finality in her words, hand over the panel now. Quinn replaces her glove, hiding away the silver for one more day. Lips that linger over the slightest bump, before he lets her go once more. Bow of head, and Alfrinn lets her mask slip. Like how the noble women would titter behind their fans at some of the fancier balls — all stories, recalled with a clarity that Quinn had never been able to find fault in from her. But there it was, corner of her mouth. Wicked curve of a grin, that disappears behind the closing door.


	21. SW/Vette: dream

Everything draws a little too tight when the lights disappear. Like the world constricts, and there’s pressure on her wrists. Right here, middle of her chest. Can’t breathe. Not enough air.

Just the red burn, crackling in the air, hair’s breadth from her cheek.

Does she remember this? Yes. No. It’s all familiar and all different at the same time, because they all have a fondness for the darker cloth. Hides blood, she had been told, with a wicked curl from the slaver. Prison guard. The titles go hand in hand.

But there are cuts, of silver, that rest too easy on hips and across the waist and up the arms. Armour that could have been considered unnecessary, gaudy. Diversion or simply to have those oppose second guess. Too bright, against the rest.

Vette doesn’t need to meet the hollow eyes of the helmet, to know who it was underneath. Swallows too deep, as the heat drew back. swung forward. Squeeze her eyes shut, and the name that leaves her is too personal and too fresh, full of memories and trepidation and—

Force on her arm. Enough to have her spring into life, once again, sharp inhale. Air doesn’t go down right, and did she imagine the pressure, imagine it all? Her wrists ache and her chest thrums deep. Cheek burns. Like she can’t touch all the places at once, and Vette didn’t recall the last time she had held herself.

Didn’t want to.

Slow slide of eyes, stage right, to where Alfrinn was kneeling, hovering hands. Those careful yellow eyes, hidden under deep tattoos of. Red and black and silver. No longer the hollow helm, which had snarled in her dreams.

“You were dreaming… _loudly_.” It was hard to pinpoint the tone, with the careful application of words. Even in the dead of night, floating in space, Alfrinn was holding court.

But whom did she hold in her bed? “May i?” and Vette nods, as the arms wrap around her. Gentle applications, where the boundaries were never crossed and the lips never fell from her cheek. A deep sigh, and tomorrow, this would be another blink. Nothing happened and would never happen, fade into darkness.

Only now, did Vette’s cheek burn, saber hot, under where Alfrinn touched.


	22. BH/Torian: bar fight

First thing. Was the way they had bumped into her. And she hadn’t needed to have been sensitive to know what it all meant. With the hands and the eyes and the sloppy grins, expression slipping into sleazy. I’m not that kind of girl anymore, Catiel says, voice just not quite hitting that tone of joking, and ducks under their arms. Keeps on walking.

Except they are still those kinds of men. Handsy and paying for drinks she didn’t want. Her personal bubble was sensitive at the best of times, and the neck of the bottle cracks under her fingers. Not even breathing was going to help her now.

Two step dance, because they are drunk and she is stone cold sober. Bar stool wretched from underneath her, and force be with her, collides with the one next to the first asshole with enough collateral it would be a good three days before he woke up. Catiel hoped at least. One helluva headache.

 _Duck_. Misses the swipe, leg swinging out to catch the stumble. There are names being shouted, and another person thrown in. Not part of the original group, or were they? Catiel didn’t bother to keep up, elbow blocking a blind jab, left fist coming around. Meeting the sternum with a how do you do, and she dives into a roll, before whatever they had came back up to say hello.

But actions have consequences, and the bar was getting involved now. One too many wrong punches and chairs thrown and Catiel takes a polite step to the side, as someone connects with the edge of the bar. Long enough to find her drink, still cracked, barely holding on. Drinks deep, and oh. There he was again. All hands and no sense.

Catiel knows what it was like to be hit in the head by a bottle. And she was glad to share the experience, in that moment. Too hard? Pokes him with the edge of her boot. Maybe there was a grunt, except it was lost to the noise and the fighting and the way Catiel has to all but twirl away.

“You’re late,” is what she says, when she crashes into Torian’s chest. One long look from him, both of them, holding it a little too long.

Until she breaks it with a sniff, turning around. Not her fault. Entirely. _Whatever_. She didn’t have to justify herself. And it was easy enough to walk out through the crowd, a clear path formed of those wanting to get out of the way. Occasionally throwing a grunt aside, but she swipes another bottle, two glasses, holding them above her head.

Nearly there. But the blind left catches her off guard. As does the way a body falls before her, and. Torian is quicker. Arm catching Catiel around the waist, manages to get all the air to leave her body. Yet not a drop spills, and she doesn’t need to turn around, to see that he was fighting the smile. Face far too smooth when she finally looks back, one foot on the stairs.

“Oh, shut up.”


	23. BH & Mako: remember remember

“Can we… talk about it?”

Mako’s voice raises, perhaps a little too much, trying to fight over the various beeps and whirs. Or, hold itself back, trying too hard not to think of blood and tears. Hands still shaking, over the controls in front of her. She remembers cold hands, and the way Catiel had pulled her by the arm.

_Come on, up, up, we gotta go!_

For her part, Catiel just rolls her neck, hand coming up to massage in skin. Too calm and too grounded, barely a misstep as she had dragged Mako from that room. As she put the blaster against Tarro’s head.

Out the corner of her eye, Gault was lurking. Eyes narrowed, lips surprisingly tight. Not a smart quip, and maybe he was remembering it still. Insisting on sitting on the edge. Catiel cracks her fingers, and stands.

“Take the helm for a bit,” she says, brows raised at him.

He slides past, eyes on her hands. “Sure thing, boss.” Voice punctured by irony. Of circumstance and technicalities. Slides into her chair, and Catiel waves at Mako to follow.

Three steps behind. Always making sure the distance was there. Out in the field, here on the ship. Catiel covered a wide range, but those three steps meant she threw her weight in front. Mako remembers each and every movement, playing behind her lids.

But Catiel slumps against the nearest wall, sliding down with the grace that came from spice users on Nar Shaddaa. Sixty seconds, before she tenses, rolls, makes a face of distinct pain and Mako sees the bruises then. Like it was all new and the lights of the ship pulled off the holo.

“Are you—”

“Sit here.” Hand patting the space next to her.

Tentative. Knees pulled against her chest. Trying not to stare at worn knuckles and the discolouration on Catiel’s jaw. She should’ve known better. Surely, all this gear in her head was supposed to make her faster, perceptive. Not watch how Catiel gingerly touches places, and then.

Puts an arm around Mako’s shoulders. Pulls her in tight. Other arm coming around, keeping the embrace tight and secure. Mako can’t make out the expression on her face. But, _but_ , that doesn’t stop her, from the ‘o’ of her mouth, to the way she returns it. Arms tight around Catiel’s middle, burying her head in her shoulder.

And, Mako finally cries. Open tears, into her shirt, coupled with apologies and thanks and something else that isn’t tangible. Catiel shifts closer, pressing her cheek against the top of Mako’s head. No words, just the way Mako believed, for one whole moment, the universe seemed to wait.


	24. SI & SW: rage

Alfrinn is the stronger. That much has always been true. Finding the holes in the way N’ahtav spins saber in hand, defence buckling under the weight. Each slash forward, driving her further and further into the ground. Earth and dust crumbling, as N’ahtav struggles to find foothold, and Alfrinn is anger.

Rage.

Years of it bottled up and unleashed upon the universe. No more painted faces, animalistic politeness that came from existing in the same room. Bared teeth and nowhere to go. Her swings are gaining too much space, but the force. The _force_ behind them has dear family struggle. To have saber shake in hand, fractures forming along metal.

One of them would fall. No more prolonged fights, drawn out in the momentary clashes when crossing paths. Alfrinn fights with the weight of a hard won saber, pried from a dying Jedi’s hands. It screams in her fingers, burning green where it should have been. Red. Cold. Ugly colour rising from the way it clashes against N’ahtav’s own.

White hot sparks and the way it’s like the world shifts around them. They are an electric bubble. Watching rock rise up, at the next clash. Where N’ahtav finally rises to meet on uneven footing. She is the weaker. Sly tactics and the burn of hidden weaponry. No longer quick enough to summon shadow to hide her away.

Alfrinn could see her clearly now. Sweat and blood. Dust. Raised skin from a mistake. Always making mistakes.

“You should have left me to die,” is her victory song, spoken too early. Too assuredly in the wake of something as simple as one mistake.

Costly one, where there is only green, and the force. Too much weight tipped forward. She is stronger. But once again, she is the weaker. Made fool by old women, with too much pride and knowledge, whispering behind hands. N’ahtav is solid feet that find her gut, ankle, knee. Faster, faster faster faster.

Screams drown out the way bones crack. As right foot is lifted to be brought straight across. Alfrinn could see it all in her mind’s eye. That her cheek would not survive such an impact. So she grabs. Reaches for whatever it was she could possibly find.

Pulls it down with her, into the space they had made. Where only moments before N’ahtav was to be swallowed whole. Blind punches and kicks that find bruised bone, until fingers find the warm skin of her throat. She could squeeze. She could end it.

Break down the wall of what had been holding her back all this time. Alfrinn could just.

_Fight._


End file.
